


Not a Victory March

by 3988Akasha



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Beating, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/pseuds/3988Akasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles is captured and brought back to Philadelphia, but it isn't until he's once more face to face with Monroe that he understands why he wasn't shot on sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Victory March

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bones_2_be](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bones_2_be/gifts).



> She's wanted gunplay for a while now...so I wrote this...then made her beta it! :)

A slap to the face woke him. Miles blinked his eyes open, taking in the dingy cell they’d put him in, the bits of hay to use in lieu of a toilet, the solid metal of his cage. He knew he must be in Philadelphia by now, although why he wasn’t just killed on sight remained a mystery to him, after his last visit to the capitol he was fairly certain the orders concerning him would have been altered. There was someone standing near the entrance to his cell, the outline of a man Miles could tell wasn’t Monroe. Whoever it was remained motionless. The flickering light of the gas lamps danced against the wall, and kept the features in shadow.

“Welcome home, Miles.”

He wasn’t surprised it was Jeremy. Miles peered closer at the shadowed figure, tried to make out his features, tried to read his face.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you _wanted_ to be captured. Again. For someone who keeps running away from home, you do make it easy for us to bring you back.”

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Miles began, keeping his voice as bored as possible. “I don’t know that I’d count killing at least a dozen of your men before someone got a lucky hit making it easier on you.”

Jeremy moved further into the cell and crouched down next to where Miles was sitting against the wall, knees pulled up, arms resting comfortably on top of them.

“You know, Miles, you’re right. Last time you just walked right in, and it was something to see. You do realize you’re even more of a legend now with the men? The newer ones were in awe of you, the ones that didn’t know you before, they idolize you. They’d follow you with a snap of your fingers.”

Miles rolled his eyes. He doubted it. Most of those men would shoot him on sight, not follow after him blindly. Maybe he was a legend, but that wasn’t his intention. The last thing he needed was more notoriety with the militia, good or bad. It wouldn’t help him distance himself from Monroe…it wouldn’t help him break away from the life he used to live.

“Sadly you aren’t my only responsibility. I hope you’re comfortable here, you’ll be here for a while, so don’t use all that hay at once.”

Miles gave Jeremy a tight smile as Jeremy teasingly slapped the side of his face.

 

He didn’t fight as they attached the wide leather cuffs to his wrists, didn’t struggle as they ran the heavy rope through the hook in the ceiling and suspended him to the point that his toes just barely grazed the ground. All of the men trussing him up for Jeremy looked like skittish mares, ready to bolt if Miles so much as sneezed around them. It was pathetic, really. They were militia and he was a prisoner. Their training should have at least been able to tell them that much.

“I feel like I should say something touching, like how much it pains me to see you like this,” Jeremy said as he walked into the cell, dismissing the men with a flick of his hand.

Miles met his gaze, but didn’t respond. They both knew it was a lie, maybe mixed with a bit of the truth, but Jeremy was enjoying this. He could tell by the smug little smile. Jeremy never had been one for a poker face.

“Monroe, he gave me very strict instructions for your time with us. For example, I’m not to damage your face.”

Jeremy reached up, wrapped his hand around Miles’ neck and squeezed until Miles’ eyes began to flutter. When Jeremy finally removed his hand, Miles coughed and tried to suck in oxygen. He knew Jeremy’s methods, hell, he’d _taught_ Jeremy his methods. He knew that Jeremy would talk, the man had always liked the sound of his own voice. Jeremy would attempt to break Miles down that way… would try to pull him into some sort of dialogue, trick him into revealing whatever information they wanted. It might work eventually; Miles wasn’t immune to torture, regardless of what rumors to the contrary might imply.

“He was also specific about permanent damage,” Jeremy continued as he slowly walked around Miles.

He came to stand in front of Miles once more, his face a façade of disinterest, as though Miles were just some run of the mill rebel they’d caught. Jeremy grabbed Miles’ chin and forced him to meet his eyes.

“Neville, well, he volunteered for this assignment. Seems he really wanted his chance to get some payback for that stunt you pulled with his wife. Ballsiest move I’ve ever seen.” Jeremy paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Although, balls were never your challenge, no. Common sense – ” Jeremy punched Miles in the gut. “Self-preservation – ” Another punch. “Tact – ” A final blow to the kidney. “Those have always been a little troublesome for you.”

Miles gave Jeremy a tight smile. Taking Julia had been a risk, but he hadn’t had a lot of options. Besides, he’d had the better hostage. Miles knew Tom would do anything for his wife, after all, she’s the only person in the world he really loved.

“The guard outside, he’s not there for you. Well, not in the traditional sense. Monroe might be crazy, but he’s not stupid. He knows if you wanted to leave this cell, you would and no guard would be able to stop you. The guard is there to _protect_ you.” Another blow to the kidney. Miles hoped Jeremy would switch to the other side soon. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Monroe doesn’t want Neville to come and kill you in the middle of the night. That’s why he didn’t get the job.” Jeremy landed another blow to his kidney, and Miles couldn’t keep from crying out this time. It made Jeremy smile and Miles spit on the ground, eyes hard.

“Monroe was afraid Neville wouldn’t be able to follow the rules. See, he doesn’t want any broken bones. You want to know what I think? I think he doesn’t really want you in here at all, but he knows how it’ll look if you’re not put in here.”

“What are you doing, Jeremy?”

Jeremy didn’t respond, he just hit him again. Miles was happy it was his other kidney. The symmetry was nice and they both knew it would help keep Miles from suffering any permanent damage.

“Don’t act like Neville’s the only one who wants me dead. Why don’t you just do it? Kill me.”

Jeremy laughed. “You know, Miles, I wish it was that easy. Just kill you. You think Monroe’s bad now? You think him sending a chopper after you and your band of rebels was bad? Kill you? No, I can’t do that. There’d be nothing to hold him back then. He’d kill everyone. He’d commit genocide on a global level and there would be no one to stop him.”

Miles closed his eyes, Jeremy’s words hitting him harder than any of his previous blows, and Jeremy was no slouch when it came to physical pain. Miles had taught him. Experience had perfected him.

They didn’t talk much after that, but the routine was the same. Each morning, Miles assumed it was morning, guards would come in and string him up, Jeremy would beat him for a while, they’d leave him hanging there just long enough for it to be truly painful before they’d let him down and feed him. Miles struggled to keep his mind focused as the tedium continued; he tried to keep thinking about all the things he needed to accomplish upon his return to the rebel base…anything to keep his thoughts from wandering to Monroe. He couldn’t afford those thoughts. Those thoughts would break him more than any physical torture Jeremy could deliver.

 

It was two weeks before he was taken from the cell. He recognized his surroundings as he was led through the corridors of Independence Hall. He knew they were taking him to Monroe. For the first time since he’d been brought to Philadelphia, Miles considered breaking free, making a run for it. He could probably make it, escape through the gaps in the security he knew existed. The thoughts didn’t make his feet deviate from his path though, and he was brought to his own room. He heard the door lock from the outside and smiled bitterly. There was a bath waiting for him, steam still rising from the water. Monroe had always been a hospitable person.

He stripped out of his tattered and dirty clothes, and considered tossing them in the fire, but refrained. With a sigh, Miles sank into the warm water, feeling the grit and dirt slide from his body. Jeremy had been meticulous in his beatings. There wouldn’t be any damage, and most of the bruising would fade within a couple of days. The worst part had been the tedium of the routine, the ample time to be alone with his thoughts…he’d actually _missed_ Jeremy’s incessant prattling. Miles reached for the soap, liking the woodsy scent, even though he knew he shouldn’t. It brought too many memories with it, but after so many years of cheap soap and cold baths, he indulged himself. He ran it over his arms, torso and legs, eyes closed with pleasure. Once he was cleaner than he’d been in longer than he cared to think about, Miles rinsed as best he could and toweled off with the terrycloth towel that was left for him. He shook his head, wondering how he’d forgotten about the luxuries of living in the capitol.

A pile of clothing was folded neatly at the foot of his bed, and Miles found himself smiling.  He pulled the first item and his smile faded. A militia uniform. A blue militia uniform, just like the one Monroe had been wearing. Miles’ fist clenched around the material. He looked back at the pile of his old clothes and had a fleeting thought of putting them back on, but they were torn, dirty and spattered with blood. Monroe knew how to play him, and with a curse, Miles pulled on the blue pants. He pulled on the matching blue shirt, but kept the top button undone. The jacket sat there on the bed, all crisp lines and shiny leather, the matching belt and shiny buckle, the ‘M’ standing out like a beacon…Miles left it there. He could be practical about his situation, but he wasn’t going to put on the jacket. Miles reached up to the collar of his shirt, removed the ‘M’ pins, and placed them on top of the jacket before turning his back on the bed. Thick socks were tucked into the boots, new from the look of them, and Miles rubbed the material between his fingers before he rolled them onto his feet. The boots were stiff, so he knew they were new. Miles shook his head as he bloused is boots, a habit left over from too many years in various uniforms.

A while later, there was a brisk knock before a young officer opened the door and entered the room. Miles looked up from where he’d sat down in front of the fire, a bored expression on his face. The young man looked nervous, but was trying his best to hide it. Miles couldn’t quite find it in him to make it any easier on him, the jacket on his bed still haunting his thoughts.

“President Monroe would like to see you.”

Miles stood slowly, knowing he’d have to face Monroe eventually. It wasn’t any easier the second time. In fact, it was worse this time because all he’d had was time to sit around and think. Think about what he’d said before, think about what he would say this time, think about things that had been, things that could never be again…just think. Miles brushed past the kid on his way out the door, frustrated from being left alone with his thoughts. Besides, he didn’t need someone to show him to Monroe’s room; he’d been there when they’d picked it out…they’d flipped a coin. Monroe had won.

Outside the door, Miles paused, feet not allowing him to actually cross the threshold. He closed his eyes, memories of his hallucination in the tunnels flooding back to him. The way Monroe had smiled at him, opened his arms and embraced him as though nothing had happened. Miles shook his head as though it would force the images from his mind and forced his hands to unclench. The kid caught up with him and glared at Miles before knocking on the door. He opened the door and imperiously motioned Miles into the room. Miles cast an unimpressed look at the kid as he brushed past him. The kid swallowed audibly before scampering past Miles, as though being closer to Monroe would help him.  

“You’re dismissed,” Monroe said before the kid could open his mouth to report.

Miles’ lip quirked up when the kid flushed and practically bowed out of the room. He held Monroe’s gaze steadily, forcing Monroe to look away first. It gave Miles an irrational, sick satisfaction. Monroe walked to the table under the window and poured two glasses of whiskey. Reflexively, Miles took the glass Monroe held out to him.

“How are you, Miles?”

His hand tightened on the glass. An hour ago, he would have killed for one, but now he couldn’t bring it to his lips. Weeks of torture, of punishment, and Monroe was asking him how he was as though it was just another Tuesday? He had a sad smile on his face, as though he knew how Miles was feeling, and thought he could make it better somehow. Miles wanted to close his eyes, wanted to obliterate Monroe’s face from his mind’s eye, but he knew he couldn’t. Even if they somehow managed to build a laser and could burn a hole through his head, he’d still picture Monroe’s face.

“What are you doing, Monroe?”

Monroe frowned, his eyes looking as though Miles had just slapped him.

Monroe nodded slowly, as though confirming something to himself. “Okay, Miles. I understand. Distance yourself, if that helps, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Why? You think a few weeks of kid-fisted beatings and a shiny new uniform are going to change anything?”

“Miles – ”

“Shut up, just shut up. Nothing’s changed, don’t you get that? You sent a helicopter after me…you’ve slaughtered hundreds of people. You should have let Neville kill me.”

Miles moved around to Monroe’s desk, a .45 Long Colt sat on Monroe’s desk. It looked like one of his, which irritated Miles even more. Why was one of his guns lying out on Monroe’s desk? He set his untouched glass of whiskey down on the desk and picked up the revolver. He smiled bitterly as he realized it was one of his. After taking a fortifying breath, Miles turned back to Monroe, revolver raised between them.

Monroe gave him the same sad smile and shook his head. “Miles, you’re not going to shoot me. You’ve had two chances and you didn’t take either.”

Miles shrugged, throat constricting dangerously. “Third time’s a charm.”

As Monroe moved closer to him, Miles tightened his grip on the revolver, willing his arm not to shake. Monroe stopped when the barrel was pressed against his forehead. He met Miles’ gaze and it wasn’t the defiance Miles expected to see, there was no challenge there. It was a simple acceptance, even a peace with whatever course of action Miles chose to take next.

“I don’t think so, Miles,” Monroe whispered.

Still, there was no challenge there, just a bone deep belief that Miles wasn’t actually going to pull the trigger. It bothered Miles more that Monroe was infuriatingly calm, too calm for the situation and he jerked the barrel just to the right of his ear and fired off a shot.

“Does this still seem like a game to you?”

Miles braced for the militia to come flooding into the room, there was nothing to muffle the sound of the shot.

“No one’s coming, Miles. Not until tomorrow morning. On my orders.”

“Damn it, Bass!” Miles pressed the barrel to Bass’ forehead and pressed down hard. He was too angry to remember he was supposed to keep it formal, address him by the last name. Not his nickname, never his nickname, but then Bass dropped to his knees as gracefully as always and held his hands out the side of his body before lacing his fingers behind his head. Miles turned away and muttered a curse. He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. Miles spun back to face Monroe, the same understanding, peaceful look on his face. Miles backhanded him, noting the way Bass’ tongue poked out to lick the blood from the edge of his lip.

“Open your mouth.”

Bass obliged without blinking and Miles forced the barrel of the gun past Bass’ lips, his arm trembling. He could hear the metal knock against Bass’ teeth. Miles pulled back the hammer with his thumb, chambering another round. His finger hovered dangerously on the trigger.

Before he could say anything, Bass hollowed his cheeks and sucked the barrel even further down his throat.

“Jesus Christ.”

Miles watched Bass’ throat work as he sucked the barrel. For a few seconds, he didn’t breathe, mesmerized by the sight of Bass, on his knees, deep throating his loaded revolver. He knew it would taste of gun oil, Bass always kept the weapons in good order.  And gunpowder, since Miles had just fired it. He wondered how hot it was in Bass’ mouth, had the tip burned his tongue? Miles began thrusting the barrel in and out of Bass’ mouth, hoping it had burned him, hoping the metal was searing its way down his throat, like a brand. The trigger was just below his finger and one tiny little pull, a twitch, would kill Bass…would kill them both. Bass knew it, too. Knew how close to death he was, how easy it would be for Miles to make a mistake, for his finger to slip, but even as Miles continued to shove the barrel down his throat, Bass stayed on his knees, eyes closed as though he were _enjoying_ it.

He meant to pull the gun all the way out of Bass’ mouth, but it hovered just past Bass’ lips instead. When Bass opened his eyes, Miles wanted to hit him, wanted to obliterate the look on his face. The way Bass’ eyes could hold tears was something incredible to Miles, always had been, and right now, even though his pupils were wide with arousal, his eyes held tears. Bass’ tongue poked out and traced the edge of the barrel before thrusting into the hollow. Miles pulled the gun back a bit further and traced the shape of Bass’ mouth with the tip, a pattern so familiar to him, lips he’d touched a million times and none of them felt quite as intimate as this. Miles looked down and noticed a distinctive tenting in Bass’ pants, which made him inexplicably angry. He thrust the gun back into Bass’ mouth and silently begged Bass to make him stop, to force the gun from his mouth and call Miles a thousand types of fool. He could, too. Bass should take the gun out of his mouth and pistol whip Miles with it until Miles stopped breathing. Part of Miles wanted Bass to do exactly that, the same part that knew Bass would never do it.

With a growl, Miles yanked the gun out of Bass’ mouth, un-cocked the hammer, and slammed it down on the edge of the desk. He tossed everything off Bass’ desk with a vicious swipe of his arm. Several things broke, including his untouched tumbler of whiskey. When he turned back around, Bass was still on his knees, his hands still behind his head as though waiting for Miles to cuff his hands. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Bass’ hair and hauled him to his feet. Bass’ eyes were blown with arousal and his lips were an angry red, almost masking the lingering traces of blood from where Miles had hit him. He wanted to hit him again, and again, and again…something to make Bass fight back. Instead, he undid Bass’ belt and pulled his pants down to his ankles before forcing Bass over the desk.

His own dick was hard and straining against the material of the uniform pants and Miles wanted nothing more than to side his own pants down and pound Bass into the desk until they both passed out form the intensity of it all. He couldn’t though, because that would be too much like coming home, too much like admitting defeat to who he knew he was always meant to be, who Bass _knew_ he was. Miles couldn’t be that man anymore, refused to take up the shackles of leadership to a broken army because he knew he wouldn’t fix it. No, he wouldn’t do anything to make it better because Miles knew there was no way to go back, not now with the power being chased by both sides. Now, his only response would be more force, more death, more _power_. He would drink it all up like a man dying of thirst and wouldn’t stop until he gave Bass the world on a silver platter. He hated himself for his weakness, for knowing he’d do it and not lose a moment of sleep over it. Looking down at Bass Miles knew he couldn’t do it.

The Colt sat on the desk next to Bass’ body, the barrel still covered in a thin sheen of Bass’ spit. With a mumbled curse, Miles picked it up, the weight heavy in his hand. He shoved it in Bass’ ass in one smooth motion, expecting to hear Bass cry out at the intrusion. He didn’t, but Miles knew it hurt, could see the tight lines of Bass’ back, the way he shook with suppressed cries. Miles smiled cruelly as he twisted his wrist to the side, making Bass’ back arch as a cry escaped his lips. It wasn’t enough. Bass wasn’t fighting him. Miles began to pull the barrel out, slowly, to make sure Bass could feel the metal inside him. The edges of his vision were fuzzy and Miles felt himself sucking in shallow breaths, but he didn’t care.

His thumb kept dancing over the hammer; every other thought was of pulling it back and firing a round. Instead, he pushed the gun in further, pulled it out faster, set a pace that matched his rapid breathing. Bass’ body was tight, rigid with pain and Miles could see Bass’ face where his cheek was pressed into desk, he could see the silent tears falling from Bass’ eyes. Miles choked on his own sob as he sped up his hand, the barrel slamming in and out of Bass’ ass with speed his hips could never replicate. Though the tears were steady at this point, Bass was still had a soft look in his eyes and this time Miles was the first one to look away. Bass’ eyes were a stark contrast to the way he held his body as Miles brutalized his ass with the gun. Tender understanding and a million other emotions shone through Bass’ eyes even as his body was rigid with pain.

Miles rotated his wrist again, the barrel deep inside Bass’ ass, and watched Bass’ eyes slam close, his fingers tighten on the edge of the desk. He established a rhythm, wondering if he was hitting Bass’ prostate with the tip of the barrel, wondered if it could possibly feel good. He couldn’t deny the sensuality of watching the metal slide between Bass’ ass cheeks, couldn’t ignore the power he felt as he pushed the gun further into Bass’ body. He hated Bass for giving him this power, for allowing Miles to abuse him like this…but, he couldn’t stop. He could only keep pushing the gun in and out of Bass’ body, feeling an ache settle in his wrist and forearm, but unwilling to relax his hold on the grip.

Miles’ eyes snapped back to Bass’ face when he heard Bass sigh. Miles cocked his head to the side, momentarily confused as he felt Bass’ body relax, go completely limp beneath him. It started slowly, the tremors, first at his knees, then up to his waist, slowly moving up his arms until his whole body was vibrating with something too painful to label. Everything came into exquisite clarity, and Miles pulled the gun from Bass’ ass with a tenderness he didn’t understand. Blood, a vivid crimson, stained the barrel from sight to cylinder. He held the revolver in his shaking hand, his heart hammering like a kick drum and there was a ringing in his ears he couldn’t shake away. Stumbling, Miles backed away from the desk, the gun clattering to the ground as he collapsed in a heap on the floor. His body convulsed dangerously as his brain tried to make sense out of what he’d just done to Bass.

Familiar hands were on his shoulders, trying to ground him as his mind tumbled into a black void. He considered reaching for the gun, placing the barrel to his temple and pulling the trigger. It was no less than he deserved, but he knew how Bass would react to his final act of mercy. He couldn’t continue to hurt Bass, but there was no escape from the cycle. If Miles lived, he’d hurt Bass and if Miles died, he’d hurt Bass…there was no way to fix it. There was no way to glue back the pieces of their broken relationship. Someone was whispering in his ear, but he ignored it, focused instead on the swirling vortex of a despair so consuming he knew he’d never recover. The voice wouldn’t go away, even when Miles shook his head, the voice was more insistent, almost desperate. He recognized it, knew the pain of the voice better than his own. Slowly, he opened his eyes and Bass was hovering over him. For a moment, Miles thought he’d died, thought this was the afterlife and felt a moment of peace. It was shattered an instant later because he could see the dried blood at the corner of Bass’ mouth.

“Miles,” Bass’ voice was full of concern. “I’m okay, Miles.”

For a second, Miles leaned into Bass, took undeserved comfort from the warmth of his body. That’s when it came back to him, the gun, the way Bass let Miles _fuck_ him with the gun…and now? Now, Bass was _comforting_ Miles. He shook his head and stumbled to his feet. He kept shaking his head as though it was going to fix anything. When he spun back around, Bass was still on his knees, arm out to Miles like he was going to pull him back into his arms. The edges of his vision began to fade again. Miles took a step closer to Bass, hauled him to his feet by the jacket and threw him back against the desk.

“What in the hell is your problem?”

Miles blinked rapidly as he looked down at Bass, at the tears that had dried on his cheeks. He pulled his arm back and punched Bass in the face, watched his head snap to the side, watched Bass slide to the floor. Miles towered over him, whole body vibrating with rage, with pain.

“Why can’t you just _hate_ me enough to kill me? Just tell me to go to hell, fuck, send me there yourself…like a _sane_ person?”

He watched Bass crawl forward a bit, watched Bass’ hand close around the grip of the Colt. His heart felt lighter as Bass stood to his feet, maybe Bass was going to do it. Maybe Bass would do them both a favor and shoot Miles between the eyes. Then Bass was holding the gun out to him, the same sad smile on his face.

 “You’re going to have to kill me, Miles.”

Miles snatched the gun out of Bass’ hand, the wetness of Bass’ blood on his fingers. Miles stared down at it for a moment before shooting five more rounds into the wall behind Bass’ desk. Bass didn’t even flinch.

“Damnit, Bass,” Miles whispered as he dropped the gun. He couldn’t do it. After everything, he couldn’t do it.

“Miles – ”

He looked into Bass’ eyes, saw the way he was still hopeful, saw the way he wanted nothing more than to take Miles back. Even after it all, Bass would forgive him. Miles bit his lip, tried to keep the tears back. He didn’t need to add his pain to what he knew Bass was already feeling. How could he not be hurting? Miles had fucked him with a gun…a loaded gun. The longer Miles stared at Bass, the harder it was to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t know how to process everything he was feeling, everything he knew would happen next. He wasn’t leaving, not now. He couldn’t. There was no way for him to run away from what he’d done, not this time. He might not be able to fix the militia, in fact, he _knew_ he couldn’t, but Bass? Maybe he could fix Bass…fix himself, fix – them.

Miles tugged Bass into his arms and the dam burst, his sobs shaking both of them as they slid to the ground, unable to remain standing. Bass just held him while Miles sobbed uncontrollably into Bass’ shoulder, his hand clenched in the material of the jacket he knew he’d be wearing tomorrow morning. The prodigal General back in front of the troops. Like Jeremy said, no one would question it, and even Neville would come around with time. Or he’d defect, either way, Miles didn’t care. As the sobs subsided, Miles nuzzled further into Bass’ neck, smelling the scent of his skin, feeling the way Bass’ arms held him close.

“Bass,” Miles whispered like a prayer.

There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he felt as though he _should_ say, but the “I’m sorry” tasted like ash in his mouth. He did the only thing he could think to do, he helped Bass to his feet and together they stumbled over to the bed. Miles had just enough presence of mind to pull the heavy blanket over Bass he walked over to the door. He opened the door, not surprised to find Jeremy standing out there, arms crossed in front of him.

“You kill him?”

Miles shook his head. “Send for a surgeon.”

“What did you do, Miles?”

Miles looked at Jeremy. “Just get the surgeon. No one else comes back here.”

Jeremy looked at him as though he were trying to pull the truth from his mind. Miles just hung his head and closed the door, knowing Jeremy would do what he’d been told. He walked back into the room, Bass too still on the bed, but Miles saw the rise and fall of his back, so at least he was breathing. He added more logs to the fire, not wanting Bass to get chilled and waited for the surgeon to arrive.

It didn’t take long, minutes, before there was a knock on the door. Miles opened it and let the surgeon walk inside. He looked hard at Jeremy. “No one else comes in here. Stand there until I tell you to move.”

Jeremy nodded slowly.

“What’s the trouble?”

Miles wanted to hit the surgeon, but they’d just have to send for another one and Miles didn’t want Bass to be in pain for any longer than necessary.

“There’s a lot of bleeding, probably some internal tearing,” Miles answered, pleased his voice only shook a little at the end.

The surgeon gave him a curious look but walked over to the bed. When the surgeon gasped, Miles poured himself a double. He heard the surgeon whisper something to Bass, saw Bass shake his head. Whatever they were saying, it clearly bothered the surgeon who kept making impatient sounds, but he dug around in his bag and began pulling out whatever it was he needed to make Bass better. Miles paced in front of the fireplace, constantly glancing back at the bed where the surgeon was dutifully stitching the President back together. Finally, the surgeon packed up his stuff and came to stand in front of Miles.

“Give him this.” The man placed a vial in Miles’ hand. “It’ll help him sleep. There was a lot of tearing, which I’ve stitched, but he can’t be moved for a couple of days. No horseback for a month and he should have it examined again at the end of the week.”

Miles nodded.

“He wouldn’t tell me what happened, but that type of tearing doesn’t happen by accident.”

Miles stared at the surgeon, wondering how far he was going to take his subtle accusation.

“I can’t prove anything without a confession, but – ”

Miles wrapped his hand around the surgeon’s neck and squeezed. The surgeon’s fingers scraped against Miles’ hand, trying to break Miles’ grip.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will cut out your heart.”

The surgeon’s eyes widened and he nodded as vigorously as a man whose oxygen supply had been cut off could. Miles nodded once before releasing the man. He opened the door and ushered the surgeon out the door. He motioned to Jeremy, who’d been standing across the hall.

“Kill him. Personally. He was never here.”

Jeremy looked at Miles as though he’d lost his mind, but he must have seen something in Miles’ eyes because he didn’t say anything, simply nodded and walked after the surgeon. Miles closed and locked the door.

Miles walked over to the bed and helped Bass sit up enough to drink whatever it was the surgeon gave him. Within minutes, Miles heard Bass’ breathing even out and knew he was asleep. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and they’d deal with everything they hadn’t dealt with today. Tomorrow he’d put on the blue jacket with the shiny leather patches, he’d affix the “M’s” to his uniform collar and heft the weight of command onto his shoulders. If there was a God, Bass occasionally believed in one,  maybe he’d be merciful, maybe he’d ensure neither one of them ever woke up to face tomorrow. 

**~FIN~**

**Author's Note:**

> Looks like my angst is back with a vengeance.


End file.
